


To End the Chaos

by comixwriter



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bull's Chargers, M/M, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 05:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6840214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comixwriter/pseuds/comixwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faolan Trevelyan. Youngest survivor of the Ostwick Circle massacre. Taken to the conclave to serve the Divine, witnesses the devastation to come. The only survivor. A child, standing alone within the devastation.<br/>He must grow to face the coming evil, or all will be lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To End the Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so, I'm going to try to Tag more things as they come up in chapters, and I will post warnings at the beginnings of chapters for potentially triggering scenes! If I don't warn about something, please let me know so that I can make sure to get it in the future!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Noise and movement hurried across Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes, as Templars and Mages alike, moved steadily into the area. Chantry Mothers, Sisters, and Reverends hurried to and fro, busy with preparations for the influx of people that would be attending the conclave, while soldiers and paid mercenaries provided security and intervened as arguments escalated past verbal sparring. The peace was kept, though it was tenuous at best; freed mages and angry Templars were wont to mix like water and oil. There was one common wish amongst those present, however; for the rebellion to be over and peace restored  
  
One particular noble present, drew inquisitive gaze as he strode purposefully through the crowds. Papers clutched under one arm and coat swirling around his ankles, with a determined steel in his amber gaze. He carved a handsome figure of authority and dealt with those he spoke in a manner of respect that earned him respect in turn, and very was it rare that his requests were turned down. It was in truth, however, his companion that was the center of this attention.  
  
Stumbling as he struggled to keep up, a small child with crimson hair and golden eyes carried important documents for the coming conclave; supplemental material for the papers the elder man held. His curly shoulder length locks bounced loosely behind him as he chattered softly about the comings and goings of all the interesting people he had seen in the temple. His voice lilting in curiosity as he questioned about what was to come, and how he could help.  
  
The short staff with a cluster of clear crystal at the top marked the boy as a mage in ways that the grey pants and coat of deepest purple did not. A small ceremonial dagger at his waist denoted his noble heritage, the Trevelyan crest eminent on the sheath and hilt of the blade. His warm tawny complexion, paired with crimson locks and golden eyes, drew the gaze of those that watched, and showed the familial relation between himself and the man he shadowed.  
  
His hesitance to approach others, particularly Templars, was apparent in his body language. He shied and bowed his head when unaccompanied by his uncle, skirting around the edge of the crowd and refusing to meet any strangers gaze. Despite this body language, approach others alone he did. When he was not shadowing his uncle, he was running messages for those who would direct the incoming crowds, showing a courage that most did not see in mage children. His courage was particularly exceptional, considering the slaughter he had witnessed at the Ostwick Circle of magic.  
  
Senior Enchanter Lydia, the boy’s instructor, had been a mage of knowledge and fairness amidst a circle of paranoid Templars and terrified mages. She had been a voice of reason and temperance that had stood strong and fast in the face of those that would have the circle devolve into madness. The Knight Commander had stood by her side, enforcing chantry law, even as she counseled her Templars towards peace. The rebellion had them all on edge as they watched Kirkwall descend into madness, and finally death, causing an uproar of unrest amongst all Circles. The resulting chaos caused mages and Templars to lash out at those that stood with them, and those that stood against. The Ostwick Circle was a prime example of just how badly that chaos had turned.  
  
The Templars of Ostwick reacted violently and viciously, turning against their Knight Commander, whom was amongst the first casualties to fall. They slaughtered their charges and friends alike, as some tried to turn the tide toward a more peaceful solution. In this bloodshed, Senior Enchanter Lydia was slain protecting the youngest of the mages in the tower. Children ranging from the youngest of four, newly brought to the tower, to adolescents of thirteen, some new and some not, were executed alongside her, their bodies falling in limp piles, blood pooling on the stone and mingling.  
  
The survivors were few, more Templars than mages making it through the ordeal. Those that did survive were haunted by the carnage and destruction their home had become. Ostwick had never been the most liberal of towers, but the mages and Templars had held a balance that few of the other circles enjoyed. The strict but fair Knight Commander and the wise and experienced Senior Enchanter had established an easy camaraderie that allowed relations between the mages and Templars to remain mostly unstressed. Fear, on the other hand, is a powerful motivator.  
  
Of the mages that had survived, only two of the eight were under the age of twenty. One, a blonde elf girl named Kia, was sixteen. She had been protected by one of the older Enchanters, and they had survived by barricading themselves and four others within the storage room. The other child that survived was a human boy, only ten years of age. His death had been prevented by Senior Enchanter Lydia, who had set up a barrier around him, her protégé, and two other mages who had been badly wounded. The other two had not survived the night. Neither one of them carried much of a talent for healing, and the boy had only just begun his training in the art. They bled out and their corpses served to remind the boy what might happen should his dead mentor’s barrier fail. Throughout the night he had managed to feed magic into the barrier, familiar enough with her magic that he was able to keep it strong.  
  
It was this boy, Faolan Trevelyan, direct student of Senior Enchanter Lydia, that scampered through the halls of the Temple of Sacred Ashes after his uncle. It was this knowledge of what had transpired in Ostwick, the slaughter of over fifty mages and almost forty Templars, that drew eyes to the boy. His courage at approaching Templars to deliver messages that, after the carnage he had witnessed, left them in awe. It was his story and acceptance of Templars that had not been involved in the Ostwick circle massacre, that helped to begin to smooth some of the interactions between the mages and Templars already present for the conclave.  
  
This is why they watched him.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
“Faolan, I need you to bring these papers down to Mother Clarice.” The voice of his uncle calling for him startled Faolan from the reading in front of him. Neatly arranging the pile of magic books he had been studying from while waiting to be needed, he stood and hurried over to where the older man sat. His uncle was in conference with three of the men in charge of the conclaves security, and Faolan had been running messages for them for the past day. He was handed a small collection of papers and given a smile as his uncle patted him on the head. “She should be by the quarters where Divine Justinia is staying.”  
  
“Yes, Uncle Iorweth.” With a quick dip of his head and a promise to hurry back, Faolan scurried from the room to find Mother Clarice, a kindly woman who kept candies on hand and was pleased to have someone to share them with. A revered Mother, she was in charge of most of the goings on of the chantry folk present, and though she might have been soft and sweet, her back was straight, her eyes clear, and her presence brokered no room for disobedience once an order was given.  
  
As he passed through the halls, he nodded and gave shy little waves to those that called out in friendly greeting to him, and avoided those that glowered at his presence. Thankfully, Faolan was rather small for his age, and was able to weave in and out of the people mostly unnoticed, and rather unhindered. It was very little time before he reached his destination, and stood in front of Ser Michaels, a knight from his Uncles arling.  
  
“Good Evening, Master Wolf.” Ser Michaels was a giant of a man with pale skin, light hair and eyes of an even lighter shade, his jovial and warm disposition a direct contrast to his icy appearance. Faolan blushed and ducked his head before grinning up at the knight, secretly delighting in the nickname his Uncle’s entourage had christened him with. They had been traveling from Ostwick to the conclave, and Faolan had come face to face with a pack of wolves while filling a water skin. The knights and his uncle had moved forward in alarm, only for the alpha of the pack to snuffle at Faolan’s face, depositing a quick lick on his cheek before herding the pack back into the woods and away from the rest of the humans. The nickname was also, ironically, the direct meaning of his given name.  
  
Ser Michaels grinned through his bushy beard at the boy, pleased that the lad had smiled at the nickname that caused his uncle to sigh so theatrically at its use.  
  
“Come to deliver more papers for Mother Clarice?”  
  
“Yes, Ser Michaels, they’re from the mercenary captains that Uncle Iorweth’s been coordinating with.” The large man snorted. Faolan was well aware of how the majority of his uncle’s knights felt about the mercenaries that had been hired to guard the conclave. Sell swords and hooligans, he’d heard the knights call them. Good for nothing, and only talented at asking for more coin. He’d seen the way some of the mercenaries looked at the more vulnerable of those arriving, and couldn’t find it in his heart to disagree with what most of the knights uttered under their breaths.  
  
“Looking for Mother Clarice, Master Wolf?” the sultry timber of Ser Juris called to them from down the left hallway. The stout and short female knight strutted towards them, and Faolan nodded at her question.  
  
Second in command of his Uncle’s knights, Ser Juris was a plain, but also terribly striking woman. Almost as short as Faolan himself, with a rather common shade of brown to colour her hair and a slightly darker shade for her eyes, she was broad and strong, and by far the most talented of her fellows. Her skill with a sword had won her many a tourney and the requests for her service were regular; her loyalty, however, lay with Teyrn Iorweth Trevelyan and none could sway her stance.  
  
Ser Michaels was, as everyone teased, very much smitten with her. Faolan could tell by the way his pale complexion dusted pink whenever in her presence, and the way he turned his body towards her in greeting. Not that she ever seemed to notice, for the giant of a man had a face that won him many a hand at wicked grace and his expression never twitched. Not even when she patted his elbow, short enough that she could not reach his shoulder, in greeting.  
  
“She’s just down the hall waiting for the Divine.” She ran a gloved hand through her shortly cropped hair as she glanced back in the direction she had come from. “They’re meeting with a small group of Grey Wardens, I think. Some of the higher ups.” Her thin lips curved in a smile as she looked back to Faolan, her broad nose wrinkling just a bit to deepen the laugh lines at her eyes. “You’d think there was another blight upon us, with how serious they were. They didn’t even smile at that damn cat that follows Mother Clarice around like a dog.”  
  
“Hush, don’t jinx it Mera.” Ser Michaels scowled at Ser Juris as she chuckled up at him. “The last thing we need is another blight so soon after the last.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Especially right in the middle of THIS.” She sighed and patted his elbow again, oblivious to the way his cheeks darkened with colour.  
  
“Yes, yes. You’re right of course.” She frowned and look at her feet as she continued. “Maker knows the last thing we need is for darkspawn to start helping with the slaughter that the mages and Templars are content to perpetuate.” She flicked her eyes to her Teyrn’s nephew. “No offence, Master Wolf.”  
  
Faolan shrugged, he might be young and a mage, but he was all too aware that the Templars were not the only ones currently out of hand and on a power trip born of desperation. He’d seen first hand just what, exactly, his fellows were capable of when they felt it was called for. Ser Michaels and Ser Juris exchanged a look, knowing all too well what he was thinking about.  
  
The two of them had traveled with Teyrn Iorweth and a small contingent of soldiers to Ostwick tower to retrieve his nephew. They’d seen the carnage for themselves, the dead Templars, mages, and abominations, and they’d seen Faolan in the middle of it all. He’d been bruised and exhausted, but alive, and obviously affected by the ordeal. It had been a week before the boy had been able to speak a word, and he still flinched at sudden movements directly beside him. Faolan still didn’t speak as much as Teyrn Iorweth had remembered the lad had previously, and they knew that it concerned their Lord. They also knew that the boy’s father, Bann Cadwaladr Trevelyan, did not show the same concern for his mage son, though they knew his mother and three older siblings cared a great deal.  
  
“You'll probably be wanting to get those papers down to the mother quickly then, lad.” Ser Michaels patted the boy's head and Faolan nodded, turning to go, when a soldier sprinted towards them. Panic in his gaze and tension in his frame, the man came to halt before the three and took a moment to gasp for breath and run a hand across his brow before speaking.  
  
“Ser Allan’s gotten into a right brawl with one of them ox men mercenary troops.” he straightened and continued “I think the lot of them are drunk and there's eight a them against just Ser Allan. They're on the outskirts of the camps outside the temple.” With a curse and exchanged grimace, Juris and Michaels followed the soldier at a run, both well aware of the temper that Ser Allan possessed and his willingness to swing his sword when intoxicated.  
  
Faolan watched them leave for a moment, before continuing down the corridor to where Ser Juris had indicated Mother Clarice would be. His footsteps echoed oddly in the empty hall and he found himself on edge, despite the lack of tension that the two knights had displayed. He was relieved when he finally reached the door and was able to knock.  
  
A strange man answered the door, someone Faolan hadn't seen yet wandering the halls, and he was leveled with a flat stare and silence. Unnerved by the empty expression on the man's face, Faolan shivered.  
  
“I've papers for Mother Clarice?” though his voice was soft and quiet, he was proud that it was steady and clear. Proud that his unease had not shown with a stutter. He was even more pleased that, when the man moved back to let him through, he did not shrink away and walked past him normally.  
  
Mother Clarice was seated at a table with three men, whom Faolan assumed were Grey Wardens, and they too held the same empty expressions as the man at the door. He approached Mother Clarice and passed her the papers and was handed a candy in return, which he pocketed with a quiet thanks. He could see the tension that was set in her shoulder, that showed in the creases of her eyes and mouth, and in the furrow of her brow. These men made her just as nervous as they did Faolan.  
  
“Thank you, child.” She smiled softly and turned her gaze to the papers and, after a moment's study, sighed. Taking out a quill and a fresh paper, she quickly scrawled a response, folded it, and passed it back to Faolan. “If you could bring that to your uncle, and hasten back with his reply, I would be most grateful, Faolan.” He dipped his head in a quick bow and hurried from the room.  
  
Once again he wove in and out of the people walking through the temple, happy to be on his way back to see his uncle, even if it would only be a brief stop before returning the way he'd come. Finally reaching the room his uncle was in conference in, he knocked twice before slowly opening the door and sliding into the room. At his uncle’s beckoning he approached them and handed the note from Mother Clarice over.  
  
After taking in it’s contents, his uncle sighed wearily, much as Mother Clarice had. Grabbing a quill, he scratched a response to whatever it was that Mother Clarice had writ, and then passed the paper back to Faolan. He took the folded paper and tucked it into his belt, before turning quickly out the room, waving quickly at his uncle’s call of thanks behind him.  
  
There was brief moment, roughly half way back to Mother Clarice, where Faolan found himself pressing against the wall in unease. In the middle of the hall a mage and a Templar were arguing heatedly, wild gestures implying violence to come. Thankfully, a broad qunari mercenary had stepped between them and, with a wink to the child, had knocked the two’s heads together. They had passed out, and the mercenary had tossed them over her shoulder with another wink and a whistle, carting them out of the way.  
  
He had nearly sprinted the rest of the way, the incident driving home just how uncomfortable this situation was for him, and he was back at the doorway within record time. He’d only been gone for roughly fifteen minutes, between leaving the room, reaching his uncle, and the hallway confrontation.  
  
As he approached the door and readied to knock, a sound within the room drew his attention. It was a sound that chilled his heart and stiffened his muscles, and screamed at him to run away. He was turning to do just that, when he recognized one of the voices within. The Divine.  
  
He steeled his resolve, and pushed open the door.  
  
“What’s going on here?”  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
He remembered running. Fear catching at the back of his throat, threatening to choke. He remembered things, creatures. Demons. Chasing him. Their screams calling for his blood as he stumbled blindly through the darkness.  
  
He remembered a figure. A woman, bathed in soothing light. Reaching. Calling. Beckoning him to safety.  
  
He remembered…  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
When Faolan awoke, it wasn’t to his room in the tower. It was too cold for it to be that. It wasn’t the room he’d shared with his uncle at the temple. There was straw underneath him instead of mattress. There was a steady dripping, somewhere off to his left, echoing through the darkness. A coolness around his wrists, brought his hands to rest slightly elevated, hanging just off the ground from his sides, and he knew that he was shackled.  
  
A whimper left his throat against his wishes, and he heard a noise from the right. A creak of old wood. A sudden influx of light as a door opened at the end of the room. Voices crowding on the edges of his hearing, as his own heartbeat grew louder and breath harsher. Panic eclipsed all else as he struggled and cried, and his back arched as sudden pain pierced through the fog of fear, his left hand crackling with what he thought was green lightning.  
  
Then he was being held, comforted, as he struggled through memory of Ostwick, the dark and fear too much like what he had experienced during the massacre, before falling limply in his captor’s arms. A woman’s voice sang tenderly in his ear as she rocked him, gentle hands running through his hair in soothing passes. His gasping sobs slowed to faint hiccups, before smoothing out to even breaths, and the rocking came to gentle halt.  
  
“There now, no one is going to hurt you little one. We just need to know what happened.” The Orlesian accent lilted the woman’s words, and they were warm in their inflection. But the shackles about his wrists and the room he woke in, one he recognized as a prison cell, did nothing to assure him of her sincerity. Noticing his reluctance to speak, she continued. “The shackles are inscribed to help contain your magic. Were you fully trained they may not do much, but that mark on your hand.” It flared dramatically at her words, cause him to hunch in and draw his hand to his chest, and he bit his lips to contain the whimper. “That mark is dangerous. We had to try everything possible to contain it.”  
  
Hesitantly, he uncurled as the mark dimmed. He turned his face towards her, weighing his words before he spoke.  
  
“I don’t understand. What… What is it?” the woman sighed, frowning at his answer, even as she ran her fingers through his hair once more.  
  
“We were hoping, with you awake, that you’d be able to tell us.”  
  
A sudden crash at the door drew both their gaze. A woman garbed in the uniform of the seekers scowled fiercely at them as he stomped into the room, her eyes alight with a curious rage. She halted before them, crossed her arms, and waited. When they merely looked at her, a guttural noise of frustration echoed from her, and her hands flew to her hips.  
  
“Well?!” Even though she spoke only a word, Faolan recognized the Nevarren accent. There’d been a set of twins at the circle in Ostwick, that everyone had mixed up, that had come from Nevarra. Still, he flinched, and huddled closer to woman still holding him.  
  
“Calm down Cassandra. The boy just woke and I just finished calming him.” Her tone was placating, but the reprimand was still there and the woman, Cassandra, snorted and averted her eyes. Her foot tapping and eyes flickering about the room, spoke levels of the coiled and tempered energy that was vibrating from her in waves of impatience. Faolan clenched his fists and fought to be brave.  
  
Cassandra seemed to take note of his defensive and fearful body language and slowly, with several deep breaths, brought herself to a calmer state. She shifted and took a step back, sighing when he relaxed a fraction.  
  
“I... Ugh. I apologize, boy. But we’ve no time for gentle hand holding.” Her tone was harsh, but the words were softer than she had been before, and he raised his eyes to meet hers for the first time. The hazel and grey of her gaze measured him as he fidgeted. She sighed. “Perhaps it would be easier to just show you.” The woman holding him nodded.  
  
“What’s the last thing you remember?” He frowned. And then frowned harder.  
  
“I… was taking a message from my uncle to Mother Clarice…” He trailed off at the jolt forward from Cassandra as her hands flew up from her hips, but wavered as if she didn’t know what to do with them. A nod from the woman behind him, and the seeker relaxed back a fraction, nodding at him to continue. “There was… there was a noise? And then… I don’t…” Uncertainty washed over him, measured in equal parts with fear. “I think… it was the second? Time?” He shook his head and clasped his hands together tightly. “I remember the noise and then, then I think something was chasing me. It was dark… and I was afraid… but there was… there was a woman! Reaching out to me!” He grew more distressed as he continued, and his voice rose to levels it hadn’t reached since before the explosion of the Kirkwall chantry.  
  
The two women exchanged a look as the child lowered his head and raised his hands to his face, a low keening coming from him as he started to cry again.  
  
Cassandra approached slowly and knelt down to reach a, strangely, gentle hand out to stroke his hair. He looked up, tears spilling from his golden eyes, distress etched into his face, and Cassandra felt herself melt just enough to exchange a concerned look with the other woman. The two of them rocked him and whispered encouragement until he calmed.  
  
“I don’t… I don’t remember what happened… Did something bad happen? Is that why those creatures were there?” His questions were quiet, barely even a whisper, but they brought a steel to the two women that had been lacking before.  
  
“There was an explosion. The conclave is destroyed, everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.” At the expression of horror on the boy’s face, Cassandra gentled her words. Unused to dealing with frightened children, she huffed quietly in nervousness. “You do not remember? Truly?” Faolan shook his head wildly, breath catching as his hair whipped across his face to catch on his tear stained cheeks. “Leliana, this may be worse than we feared.”  
  
The other woman, Leliana, stroked Faolan’s head once more before reaching into her pocket and drawing out a key. With a deft twist, she unlocked the metal encircling his wrists, and gently removed them. She helped him to his feet, before standing herself.  
  
“I’m going ahead to the forward camp.” Cassandra nodded as Leliana started to walk from the room, taking the boy’s hand as he reached out hesitantly after her.  
  
“I will take the boy to the rift.” Leliana turned to glance briefly at him, before raising her eyes to Cassandra’s, brow arching. “It will be easier to show him.” A sharp nod, and she strode from the room, door swinging behind her. She was gone by the time Faolan and Cassandra followed her path, and he squinted in the sunlight as they exited the building. He faltered for only a moment, before his gaze riveted to the sky in dawning horror.  
  
“We call it the breach.” She spoke, back to him, transfixed on the sight before them. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour.” Turning towards him, Faolan found himself meeting Cassandra’s eyes. “It is not the only such rift, just the largest.” Her voice softened as she knelt to look him in the face. “All were caused by the explosion at the conclave.”  
  
“I… explosions are… are they able to do that?” his shoulders were tight and his hands fluttered and clenched nervously in front of him, drawn closely to his chest. Cassandra nodded.  
  
“Unless we act, the breach may grow until it threatens to swallow the world.” The unwavering surety of her tone, shook Faolan to his core. “The mark on your hand. It flares and expands every time the breach grows larger and, if left unchecked, will kill you.” He raised his eyes from Cassandra to take in the magic that swirled above their heads, fearfully assessing the hole in the sky. He thought briefly of Senior Enchanter Lydia, dead. Then to his uncle, who, if he were to believe what they were telling him, was dead. Then he thought of his uncle’s knights, and of the qunari mercenary who had helped him. All of them. Dead. This hole in the sky, evidence of the truth.  
  
“I understand.” He steeled his stance and lowered his gaze from the sky to meet Cassandra’s startled expression. “I don’t know what happened, but obviously I’m involved somehow if this…” he raised his hand and looked at it with distressed eyes. “If this is connected to the- the breach. Maybe it can be used to stop it.”  
  
Cassandra stared. She stared long enough that Faolan began to fear that he’d said something wrong; she’d already seen him emotionally wrought. What if she thought him nothing more than a stupid child, playing at being responsible? His thoughts whirled, and his expression started to shift, before Cassandra raised a hand to cup his cheek as her expression turned to wonder.  
  
“How old are you, boy?” he hunched defensively averting his gaze, fearing the worst.  
  
“Ten, Seeker Cassandra.”  
  
“And your name?”  
  
“Faolan… Faolan Trevelyan, from the circle of Ostwick.” As he spoke, he grew in confidence, refusing to let his mage heritage be a source of embarrassment for him. He moved to meet her gaze again, and found a wry smile on her lips. It was somehow sad.  
  
“The youngest survivor, only to become the only survivor.” He flinched at the understanding in her voice, but refused to avert his gaze once more. It was not pity that he heard, and maybe not quite empathy, but he knew that she regretted what he had endured, and that he could live with. “Come. We must head to the rift, and see what that mark can do. Let’s see if we can’t close the breach with that will of yours.”  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
